These Lifeless Things

by Premee Mohamed

  No, said the child. They never said.

  I daresay They wouldn’t, I said.

  We used to call out of the hole, she said, but then we heard... we heard people coming to help us, and the... monsters... always...

  It’s all right, I said hastily. Don’t feel bad.

  She said, So we stopped.

  Are They hurting you? Are They... experimenting on you? I said. Behind me, V. said: Eva. Shut up, I told him.

  Olga said, No. But there isn’t much to eat. And sometimes people come by and they... take us out. Usually the young ones. And they don’t come back.

  After a judicious pause she added, They haven’t taken me yet, of course, because I’m almost eleven.

  I said, Sit tight. We’re coming to get you out. Soon. We’ll come back. We’ll come back.

  No reply. I suppose she doesn’t believe us. I wouldn’t either. And what if it’s... I can’t help but think. What if I don’t believe her? What if it’s a monster or something, imitating her voice? Are They capable of something like that? What if it’s a trap, meant to lure in the very, very last few survivors?

  I can’t believe, though, that They would think of that.

  The doors are chained shut, the windows boarded. Next time, V. said as we ran back to the flat, we’ll bring some bolt-cutters and get in there, and... But I wasn’t listening.

  I am already planning. We can’t, I think, go in through the inside. Too many hallways and doors, good for an ambush. We’d be ripped to bits. But from the outside, where no one expects it...

  I don’t think They would play a trick like that, V. said when I brought up my theory about the voices. But I can believe that Their agents would. That’s an old trick, a wartime trick. They lure you with something. Warehouses full of food. Ammo dumps. Hostages, POWs. Wives. Children. And then, when enough soldiers fall for the lure...

  That’s true, I said. And we fell silent.

  There’s ages of majority, I thought, and before that, we as adults are assumed to be the custodians of the young. We make decisions for them. We pick them up, we put them down. We drive them around. We tell them: You will go to such-and-such a school, you will study such-and-such an instrument. Oh, there may be some input; but we don’t allow them to be decision-makers, we don’t allow active participation in their lives. Maybe other parents did, I don’t know. But there’s no five year-olds I would trust to make a good decision about their future, because they’d just run right into the street.

  And yet, I did not ask these children: Do you want to come out? Into the world? It will not be the world you remember.

  Of course, they’ve been kidnapped by transdimensional monsters. If anyone says ‘No’ I suppose it’ll just be Stockholm Syndrome.

  Still, though.

  November 17

  We have a plan, not a good one, and depending equally on luck that we cannot count on, science we do not know, and risks of which we are blithely and necessarily ignorant. Truly, it is the kind of plan you picture people coming up with in the old days, when their brains were mush from hunger and propaganda, when everything seemed like a good idea.

  Back in the old neighbourhood, we four, our strange little family, gathered at A.’s place, and he called in the others as surreptitiously as he could over the space of a few hours. I made a speech. V. made a speech. P. curled up on the sagging sofa and chewed on her knuckles till they bled. You’re just a child yourself, I wanted to tell her, but of course, if she was at the university, she was in every respect not. But I keep comparing her to me and thinking: Look at you, I have a pair of shoes older than you.

  I think I do, too. Or did.

  The others fell silent after we spoke; B. rocked back and forth, and watched me, his mouth opening and closing as if he was going to speak. An inconclusive meeting. We made no new recruits. Disheartening: and we have no means to do what we plan anyway. Hell, by the time we figure something out, all the kids might be gone. But if we don’t go back soon, they’ll lose hope.

  The time has come to pray, but I find myself speaking into a humming void: not the proud and obnoxious atheism of my twenties, not the uncertain agnosticism of my childhood, but just... calling a line, and hearing it ring and ring and ring, no one picking up. Pick up, I beg, and I clasp my hands now at night. Let me feel as if there’s something there.

  Perhaps They have usurped God too, shoved Their way into where He lives, I don’t know. If there are any strange angles up there, They will find them; They always do. I find myself childishly, exhaustedly glad our new flat is all curves and circles.

  Instead of praying for help or comfort I find myself mumbling at night to the children who cannot hear me.

  Here, children, I will say when we get them out. We have saved you; we have delivered you into this world that some of you may remember, and some of you may well not.

  Here, you must know the good guys from the bad guys.

  The bad guys no longer label themselves with sharp black uniforms or mangled crosses, nor do they bear our flag, or the badge of our city; they are like and unlike the simple images in your schoolbooks. Do you remember those?

  I make these speeches to myself in here only. I would never say such things to children.

  And yet: Look, children, we have rescued you. You owe us nothing, not even your gratitude; and we owe you everything, merely for staying alive. But I want you to look carefully at this world.

  Here are the bad guys. Are you paying attention?

  Hunger. Thirst. Illness. Injury.

  Rain. Snow. Dust.

  Sickness. Loneliness. Despair. Mistrust.

  Agents. Looters. Rats.

  The statues of the conquerors.

  The trees which seek to seize and skin you.

  The small monsters which seek to harry and eat you.

  The Them, who have come from far away, and a different time, to drag you into the darkness. But Them you already know.

  Did They speak to you, in the darkness? What did They tell you? Did They admit that They were the enemy? It should have been clear to you that They were, but you are all very young. Well, never fear. We have gotten you out.

  I choke on: And I will be your mother now.

  I’m a mother already. I’m a mother of two. That is part of me, part of who I am. But where are they now? They’re fighting and they were too young to fight, I—

  I weep now, writing these words. We will never get them out, will we? And then even if we survive, it will be for nothing. Nothing, absolutely nothing.

  I rehearse the plan in my head, I stare at the lines on my left palm, cramped around this pen, but conveniently, even mystically, aligned with the map I have in my head. Here, this bubble on my lifeline is the old seminary; and here is the river, its ice cracking under the weight of a sparrow; and here are the train tracks; and here is the lake; and here, at my wrist, where the blood beats thickly in the green veins, is freedom.

  Oh, we can’t do this. What were we thinking?

  What will we do?

  November 18

  B. is dead. Note how I don’t say ‘missing.’ Confirmed. Added to the tally at the back of the book.

  No burial place.

  And he couldn’t even—I hate to say it. He couldn’t even hang himself? Neatly, quietly? Or shoot himself? We would not have begrudged him the bullet. There’s lots of ammunition left if you know where to look in the city, and there must still be handguns around here and there.

  No, I’m sorry to say, he concocted some kind of homemade device and blew up not merely himself but his entire building.

  We had returned early from the harvest, rather than right at sundown. A good thing, too. We were far too close. If we had been closer he would have taken us with him, I think. But we all looked up at once, and saw him standing in the window, waving at us. It did not occur to me to run. I just looked up. I waved, even, I think. I can’t remember.

  He was on the top floor, the fourth floor. So the building collapsed slowly and drunkenl
y, swaying, weakened, and then down, the third floor, then down again, the second. Really it was much less dramatic than I think he intended for it to be. And less lethal. We avoided the worst of the shrapnel, half a block away, but there was so much dust, a mushroom cloud of it, like a nuke. White, white concrete dust. It wasn’t even as loud as I thought it would be.

  We all stood there for a second, mouths open.

  And then in the wake of the explosion, a dreamy moment, the kind you dream of as a teenager; V. overwhelmed, half-flattened with shock, lowering his head to my shoulder, placing his arm around my waist. I could have turned by the minutest amount, gone up on my tiptoes, and kissed him square on the mouth. Instead I raised my numb and trembling hand to his pillowy curls, and we stood there a moment, letting warmth bloom between us. And I too let hope bloom: That he feels the same way as I do, that he was seeking something more than comfort and safety in the arms of a friend. My nose was bleeding and ran through his hair, I accidentally anointed the dusty nape of his neck. The droplets spelled out, I thought, words of devotion. I felt ill, and giddily happy, and anticipatory, as if a treat I had been long-promised had suddenly arrived.

  And then P. came up behind us both and nuzzled into my shoulder and his, and I thought as I put my arm around her, with a sudden daggerlike sickness deep in my gut: No. They are children looking for mama’s arms.

  I’m too old. What was I thinking? I’m forty-five, I’m too old to even think this; they should be with each other.

  It only lasted a second, anyway. And then we had to run. The sound had attracted some sentinels, and though we couldn’t see them in the dust, I could hear Their shrill cries to each other, the grunts and growls. Ears ringing, faces buzzing, we ran. I set the pace, for once. I think the others were still in shock.

  Not just a death, but a death like that. A death we have not seen in well over a year, and right at our feet.

  Later, V. and I left P. sleeping in A.’s flat and gingerly returned to the glowing rubble. I felt callous, scheming, a Shakespearean villainess. V. just seemed numb.

  If he left a note, V. said, it’s probably gone now.

  I said nothing. And I grow increasingly convinced that it was an accident.

  And also: What did he use? How much material did he leave behind? Was it dynamite? Homemade gelignite? Is there enough to make more bombs?

  He did not leave enough of himself to even bless and bury. But he must have left something else.

  Thoughtfully, quietly, not talking much, we ate the last dried strawberries of summer from our pockets and roamed around the ruins, looking for instruments of death. Instead, it may be that we found the means of a very ill-advised rescue.

  Eyes gleamed in the dusk as we left, clambering down over the still-smouldering scraps. Just a minute, said V. Some of those are people.

  There’s something wrong with their eyes then, I said. Let’s go.

  Run, he said.

  We ran.

  November 20

  Tired. It’s getting very cold out there, but is it cold enough? A few skiffs of snow, frost every night. We had to rush to get all the cabbages in, but I barely notice the weather except as it relates to the river. My entire mind, my entire life, seems to have shrunk to a pinpoint. As if it were an ocean once, and then it was a lake, and now it is barely a puddle.

  We scouted all day today, tiring ourselves in our vigilance. But hit the jackpot (am I using that right?): there’s an underground tunnel to the river, leading inadvisably but usefully near the wall of the seminary. (Yes, part of that ‘structural instability,’ I suspect. The soil must have become waterlogged decades ago.) The tunnel is bricked off, but it resembles the ones still open near the canals.

  V. and I tapped on the sides, as if we could tell whether it’s filled with water or not, but it doesn’t sound like it is. It sounds hollow, promisingly hollow.

  Maybe we could use that instead of the train tracks, which are so exposed.

  Maybe instead, we could use the train tracks as a decoy.

  I don’t know. We need to plan. If A. is around later I will go ask him. He was an engineer. Is, I suppose. The Them didn’t come here and rip away his certificate, ha ha.

  If the river is frozen, we could...

  No, I’ll ask A. about it. No sense brainstorming in here.

  As we left the seminary, V. and I (delightedly, like naughty children) ducked under the snatching branches of the nearby trees, sacrificing the backs of our jackets and a few scraps of skin from wrist and cheek, and dumped bags of salt at their wretched roots, and splashed them with kerosene and set them on fire. What joy, to watch the trunks wither and writhe!

  Take that, V. panted as we sprinted away; the cemetery emptied out at our heels in the lowering dusk.

  We just gave ourselves away, I said, even though it had been my idea.

  They knew already, he said. They knew we were coming.

  November 22

  K. wavers. What to do about him? I am sure he must hate the status quo as much as any of us, but he also thinks, clearly, if not out loud: Here is the equality we were promised. The weight of the boot presses us all down evenly. And now we must draw attention, shine light upon ourselves, against an invincible enemy? Why not be equal in the dark?

  Yes. We must.

  Is he an agent?

  Listen. When he disappeared two nights ago, slipping out of the flat and silently closing the door, I was up (no mean feat; we spend all day on our feet on scanty rations, and we sleep like the dead at night) and following him. Unsubtly, clumsy in my eagerness not to lose him. He caught me, and took my elbow, gently, and walked me back to the flat. It’s not safe, he said. Go back inside. Sleep.

  Don’t you think I know it’s not safe, I said, approximately. Don’t you think I know what’s out there? Where are you going? Why?

  None of your business, he said.

  It is my business if you’re endangering all of us, I said. What gives you the right? There are three of us to consider. Not just you.

  I’m, he said, and hesitated dramatically, his face shifting. Going to see a... a woman.

  Oh really, I said.

  Yes, he said. Don’t follow me. I’ll be all right.

  I don’t care if you’re all right or not, I said. Don’t ever, ever do it again. Or go find somewhere else to live. Go live with her.

  We both know that he is doing nothing of the sort, and I am so angry that he lied to my face as brazenly as that. Like a toddler with his face all jam, denying that he stole it from the fridge. Did he think I would believe him? Did he think I would not be insulted by the lie?

  I need to talk to V. If this were another day, another place, we’d run K. through an ordeal. We’d say: Prove that you’re not a witch. Now, I watch his hands, I am paranoid. How do They choose their agents? In times of war, or at least times of siege, humans willing to be slaves for a chance to survive must abound; truly, we’re either slaves or we’re prey. Just prey. Nothing more than that.

  How can I find out about K. Maybe he will reveal himself.

  Why do I keep asking myself questions that I cannot answer? At least no one will see this book. Unless it is found in the far, far future; but I don’t suppose paper will last that long. Maybe I should start thinking of arrangements for it.

  That’s morbid. I mean, arrangements for its... for its eventual disposition... in the event that...

  I mean to say, I must find a final resting place for this book, since I will have no say about the resting place of anything else.

  November 23

  One last-ditch recruiting speech.

  I said: I want to try to make a world that is not like this in some way, any way. Maybe we will kill enough of Them that They will return to Their world. Maybe They will jail us, torture and kill us, no one will know. Maybe They will catch us and make us agents, and our fingers will bleed instead of our faces. But that too will be a different world.

  I said, Isn’t it worth trying? Are you not already t
ired of two years under Their reign? They are, you know, the shittiest possible rulers. We should be overthrowing Them just on general principles. But since we cannot, we should at least steal from Them. Aren’t you tired?

  K. said, Oh God. I am so tired. Yes. Of course I am. But if any agents hear us...

  And V’s head turned as if it were attached to a string. Of course. I was thinking the same thing. We were among people we know, neighbourhood people. No agents at all. Why was he thinking of them?

  If K. is, by some baffling circumstance, not an agent, he is ripe for being turned. Absolutely ripe. Indeed, he would make a good agent, I thought helplessly as he turned away from us. They would not need to break him; he would agree, he would hold out his hand for Their cruel badge, all angles and shivering protrusions. He’d justify it to himself as being for the greater good. No effort would be needed.

  He said, The world with Them in it can be survived. What do you think we’re doing? People can still have children; who says they can’t? I am just saying, you are not being... brave, or noble, or even very clever. You are throwing your lives away like garbage.

  No we’re not, P. hissed.

  We all stared into the fire, and watched our shadows dance on the opposite wall; I waited for horns to sprout on K.’s shadow.

  It may be, I think, writhing in agony in my darkest hours, it may be that we cannot get everyone out. It is clear that once we have stolen from Them we cannot stay in the city to await Their punishment. So then we will have to choose. Get only the children out? Or still try for everyone? There is no one I want to leave behind, no one. (Maybe K.) And if it comes down to it (oh, these dark, dark words), I think that no one would volunteer to be left behind.

  Please, God, let it not come down to it. Let us all get out.

  Maybe the whole world has been overrun with monsters and gods. Maybe we will flee into their very maws. But please, give us the chance to try and to see. Don’t let us die here. Don’t let us die here.